


Between These Trees

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, Insecurity, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Season/Series 02, using ones intelligence to cope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: They're having some difficulty dealing with the events of that night, but at least they have each other.It's going to take a hell of a lot more than just that to keep them alive, but at least it's a start.--Prompt List: #4. things you said over the phone





	Between These Trees

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt List](http://glompto.tumblr.com/post/116789043953/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a)

                Stiles is barely pulling out of her driveway when she calls Jackson. He has to be dressed now and should probably be talking to his parents - celebrating, freaking out – _he's not dead, he's alive and he's a **werewolf**_.

 

                But they probably don't know that last part.

 

                It goes to voicemail.

 

                That's for the best, she thinks, taking in a deep breath and finally moving for her front door. Still, she misses him already, wants to make sure he really is safe, that he really is alive, not dead, not in a body bag or on some warehouse floor. She wants to feel his skin beneath her palms, warm, heartbeat echoing, and _alive_. She knows that all of this is, while not irrational, also not something that is going to happen without cause and is leftover anxiety from seeing him... how he was.

 

                It doesn't stop her from wanting him, craving the sight of him in person again already, however. It's a very visceral thing; not all logical, nothing she can just shut down.

 

                She hates it.

 

                So, if voicemail is all she has, then she'll take it until she can have him in front of her once more. Listening to his voice both hurts and relieves her, and she lets the familiarity of it wash over her, not paying attention to the words the recording repeats back. It's nothing too terribly unique, anyway, a professional recording his parents pressed him into doing, rather than anything with much personality.

 

                When it finishes, she takes in a breath that sounds wet even to her ears. She thinks she normally would have been more embarrassed by it, but given the circumstances of the day's events, she can't find it in herself to be too bothered. Instead, she focuses on choking out the words, "I really do. I love you."

 

                She takes in another breath, feeling like she should say something more, that her voicemail should be something more than just a reminder. She just doesn't know what that something more should be. "I..."

 

                The front porch light turns on, signifying that someone home must be waiting for her to come inside, and she decides that her voicemail doesn't have to be anything extravagant. Anything else she needs to tell him can be said tomorrow. With one hand on the door, she finishes, but her voice holds none of her determination; instead all her fractures, "Of course I do."

 

                She ends the call and opens the door, listening to her own footsteps _click, click, click_ before the world can tack on a silent reply. Anything profound that the universe has to say – it can tell her tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

 

                " _I can't sleep_." The words shake with vulnerability and they seem to vibrate at the exact speed that resonates with something inside her, something that's fought its way up too recently; something not that deep beneath the surface.

 

                Fear is too simple a word, but to dismiss it completely wouldn't be right either. It's very obviously there, and very obviously active. It has to be, with what they've seen, what they _will_ see. It's something darker, something more than anxious threats. It's deep and unknown, more than they could ever guess.

 

                They walked into these woods on a dare with nothing but each other and a flashlight. Anything they find here will be worse than whatever they could come up with and they both know there is no exit. No real one, anyway.

 

                She shifts under her blankets and looks down at her hands. It isn't until she inhales, surprised at how clean and unharmed they are, that she realizes she was expecting her sheets to be filthy, covered in blood or dirt or flowers.

 

                "I can't either," she whispers, just as honestly. A man's face flashes through her mind, first young, then older, then scared, burned. He grins all the way through, only disappearing when she squeezes her eyes tight enough to see fireworks of all colors bloom behind her eyelids. Another hallucination, but much less traumatic, and one she can control.

 

                She can hear him breathing down the line and it's comforting. He's there and alive and he's choosing that moment to call her, spend his time with her, even if he doesn't have anything to say. He needs her as much as she needs him. Symbiotic, mutual.

 

                _Love_ , a voice says in her head, and it sounds nothing like another voice she'd heard, but it could be herself, just as easily as it could be Jackson. It does have something she's familiar with in both herself and him, that cut-straight-through-the-bullshit tone, something she could picture easily with a roll of eyes.

 

                _You're using that to cope_ , it says next, and god, isn't it just the same to rationalize her own coping mechanisms to herself?

 

                She shakes her head and closes her eyes, shoving all of those thoughts aside. She doesn't need to deal with any of that. Not now, when she hasn't slept properly in too long, not now when she has a boy with paralleling problems on the line, needing her. Not when she has him, too.

 

                Pulling a pillow to her chest, to curl around while she misses the body of someone else in her bed, she whispers into the phone, demands, "Tell me what you'd do if you were here."

 

                There's a laugh at the other line, soft and almost of disbelief, amusement, and she relaxes, focusing on it. It feeds warmth into her chest and for a second, that's enough to quell the heavy weight of him not being there beside her. " _Well_ ," he starts, and his voice is so soft. There's something about the night that's so quiet, even if they don't have to be. " _I'd reach over and I'd push your hair behind your ear. It always untucks the second you get into bed, and then I can't see your face_."

 

                She sighs, knees coming up to curl next to the pillow. She can see it, feel it, the ghosts of his fingertips along the shell of her ear, dragging over her jaw, like he always does. "And then?"

 

                " _I'd kiss you_."

 

                He keeps going and as he talks, the picture of before forms in her head. In between the trees and under the stars, they link their fingers together. The monsters are just as scary as they lurk in the shadows, but for that brief second – they can't see anything. They only know of each other, and the binding of their hands.

 

                And in that second, it's enough to build the start of a fire called hope.

 

* * *

 

 

                As soon as she accepts the call, she's asking, "You need me to tell you what kind to get, don't you?"

 

                It kind of hurts, a twinge, really. She would have thought that by now he'd have bought her enough tampons to know what kind she gets, but maybe he always had to make a note of it. Maybe when they broke up, he threw that away. She wonders what else he threw away. Maybe –

 

                " _No_ ," he cuts into her thoughts abruptly, actually sounding... somewhat offended and he sighs before continues, much more collected. " _I already have them. I just noticed that there was a new Ghirardelli flavor and I thought you'd want it_. "

 

                That sobers up any potential worrying thought and embarrassingly enough, her toes curl in adoration and pleasure as a small smile unfurls on her lips. "What kind is it?"

 

                " _Dark chocolate covered blueberries_."

 

                She pretends to think about it, but she can already hear movement on the other end of the line. "Sounds fine enough." She bites her lip and she has no reason to play coy, but she can also imagine the love-smug-pleased look that fixes itself over him when she does, so she plays the part anyway. "You'll try some with me?"

 

                " _I thought was obvious_."

 

                She grins to herself and hums. "See you in ten."

 

* * *

 

 

                Unsurprisingly, when she's sick, she isn't allowed to have people spending the night and should be in bed and sleeping, according to her mother. Also unsurprising, is how as soon as she gets the chance, Lydia deliberately ignores this to call Jackson.

 

                "I can't sleep." A lot of their phone calls start this way, but they're usually much later in the night. However, she'll admit that her sore throat makes her sound more grumpy than really upset, and being that she'd normally be up at this time, grumpy would actually fit.

 

                Jackson makes a noise that roughly acknowledges her pain and then asks, " _What are you wearing?_ "

 

                She's startled into choking on her own spit, which quickly delves into a coughing fit. This, of course, in turn makes him begin to laugh.

 

                "Asshole," she groans, voice weak when she can finally breathe, and he laughs even harder.

 

                She hangs up on him.

 

* * *

 

 

                She has nightmares sometimes.

 

                That much is obvious. And it's way more than sometimes. She can't remember the last time she dreamed without some aspect twisting into something that jerks her into consciousness, grasping at her aching lungs.

 

                She has nightmares about the things he says. It's never what normal girls would lose sleep over. Never the words, _dead weight_ or _this is your fault_. Those are merely pesky flies compared to the real deal.

 

                No, it's closer to things like, _if I don't see you again_ , and, _if I don't call in two hours_ , and one time as he choked on his own blood, eyes wild and words too vulnerable for anyone but her, even as he said them in front of everyone, _I don't want to sleep_.

 

                One innocuous phrase that never leaves her is the always cut off, _do you still –_ , the one that always ends in quick succession; eyes closed, nodding; the _shink_ of unsheathing claws, of them slicing inward and up; life draining from him and his eyes, just losing everything; and she's alone, on the dirty floor, and he's gone, and _I do. I do still love you_ ringing in her head like it will somehow reach him, wherever he went from there.

 

                But all those other things... The ones that start in _if I don't_ , she doesn't know if it's better or worse that she usually doesn't have an expression from to go with them. At least that means that said potential expressions don't leak into her nightmares, but instead they're warped. They're twisted into her getting phone calls from the rest, saying in dead, solemn tones that something went wrong. And it could just as easily be that something went wrong with one of the others, but in her head, it's always him. She imagines for him, it's just the same, that in his head, it’s always her.

 

                Still, during these actual, real calls, she just grits her teeth, and thinks up her picture of them in the woods. They're surrounded by a circle of fire now, illuminating their enemies and protecting the two of them from any harm. Whatever is after them has to quench that hope first, before they can really get them, and every day that they make it, that they are safe and learn how to get on by, that fire builds up, brighter, taller, hotter.

 

                So, she thinks of them, safe and sound, and she says, "Tell me the plan one more time." Not for her memory, or even for his, but for a shared benefit of a single minute together, safe, untouched.

 

                And always, he says back, " _I love you_ ," waiting until she returns the sentiment before he recites what they're to do. And always, it feels, in that moment, like he can see that picture, too.

 

                It feels like he is taking their clasped hands as he stares out into what they're facing, and squeezing her own, tightly. An acknowledgement, a battle cry of their own. A heartbeat of that hope.

 

                _Their_ hope.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, thanks for reading. hope you have a good day


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